Living in another country and you lose some of the things you value most like Branston Pickle, Coleman’s Mustard and a hairdresser that knows you.
So it was fun the first time that one of decided it was haircut in Spain time and I was thankful that it was Russ who had to choose first! I’d seen a barber shop around the corner from the Tram Station and thought I would take him there. Walking in there, there were guys waiting so Russ sat – waiting – waiting his turn. We tried to chat quietly as to how he should ask for the style he wanted. Tres – pointing at the sides and then a scissor action on the top. The guy in the chair getting a haircut laughed and in English said ‘its OK, he will understand you’.
Eventually it was Russ’s turn and the pantomine of how he wanted his hair cut happened. The guy nodded so yes it was understood.
The finishing touches and Russ was finished in the chair.
Time to pay and in perfect English the barber asked for his 6 euros. It took us both by surprise when his next question was ‘where are you from in England’, our reply was Wirral near Liverpool. He laughed ‘I’m from Manchester and know Wirral well!’
So now Russ has a barber who he can get to know and next it was my turn to find one too.
I’d been recommended a hairdresser, just around the corner. The problem is I really hate going to the hairdresser, it’s not that I’m always disappointed it’s just well I really don’t like going. That chatter in the chair just drives me mad. Even if they get to know me I always find the time in the ‘chair’ a pain to endure.
Learning from Russ’s experience I went to the shop and found that the English was minimal. Great no silly chat there then. The only problem is describing what I wanted. Sorted. I took a picture and showed what I wanted but longer.
For once I felt as though I actually had hair to cut, normally I feel that it is too fine that hairdressers laugh at it. This time it was snipped and flicked and teased into a style with more layers than an onion and after 2 shampoos it smelt lovely too!
Actually except for it being a bit shorter than I wanted then there was nothing wrong with the experience, a great head massage, a neat cut and a compliment from Russ that it suits me.
What is it that I hate about hairdressers. It goes back to my Dad. He had a barber call to the house every Sunday to cut our hair. The problem was that he could not distinguish different styles so my brothers and sisters and I all got the same style with the girls being a bit longer. We all called him ‘The Butcher!’ One of my Brothers even threatened to run away from home when I was 11, if my Dad did not let me get a proper ‘girls’ hairstyle. It didn’t help that I was a natural tomboy and was always getting called ‘sonny’.
I guess it was just ingrained in me from an early age that hair was practical, short, sorted quickly and nothing to ever be vain about. That is what I have grown up and still to this day have a deep belief about that I have turned into ‘I hate going to the hairdressers’.
Maybe now is the time to accept and forgive the past and the way my Father made me think. It was just his way.
What in your past can you forgive and release to leave you free to make a happy future.
Here’s a photo that shows the family hairstyle, at least Mum got hers done properly!